


Rushing Headlong

by Keibell



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF, Queen (Band)
Genre: BANTER BETWEEN THE BOYZ, Blood, Broken Bones, Concussions, F/M, Fluff, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Injury, Love, Vomiting, but the vomiting is minor and so is the blood, deaky spits the truth, its just a lil bump on the head dw, mushy stuff I'm sorry, reader uses female pronouns I'm sorry, rogers a bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keibell/pseuds/Keibell
Summary: Roger find himself in a hospital when he wakes up, with the worst headache in the world. And where the fuck is everyone?





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my tumblr @rhapso-kei !! pls req stuff here there ahaha <33

_BANG.  
_

_Darkness. Pain flaring up his side. Screeching feedback from the stage kit. The crowd going unnaturally silent._

_Red caked beneath his nails from where he’d been grabbing at the wound stamped into his skin. Your voice, barely audible from the wings as you screamed._

_“ROGER!”_

And then he was awake.

Roger groaned in pain, screwing up his face before cracking an eye open, scrubbing the sleep from his face with the heel of his hand. Hm. He really must learn what that stuff is called. Brian would probably know - he didn’t really remember much from his biology classes at the moment.

_Brian. Where is Brian?_

“You awake, Rog?”

He bolted upright, his nerves buzzing with panic before the room lurched violently to the side and he heaved, gripping the bed railing to try and steady himself. He gasped for breath, an arm swinging wildly over the precipice of the hard mattress as the blurry shape sitting across from him jumped up and hauled him back into the bed. His chest lit up, heart exploding behind his ribs and he let out a rather embarrassing squawk as his arms flailed in the air, fighting off the blob that was now looming over him.

“ _Christ_ \- Thanks for the help, mate!” The figure called sarcastically to someone on his left, and something in the back of Roger’s mind recognised the voice but was pushed away by the overwhelming sense of _wrongness_. He needed to get away - he needed space - his head hurt so _much_ -

“Rog, calm down!”

Another shape rose into view now, wrapping long, bony fingers around his left shoulder and pressing it to the bed beneath him. The right shape followed suit, and Roger shouted out again, his voice cracking painfully and his legs kicking up below the covers.

“Good grief, he’s gone mental!”

“Since when was he this strong?” The voice to his left sounded strained, huffing out a breath that echoed in his head. Something familiar. Someone he knew.

“ _Roger_ , you need to stop!” The first voice called to him, cutting through his panic-fuelled haze. He struggled wildly, his energy fizzling out like a spark, and his vision clearing to the stark, fluorescent lights of a hospital room. Static crackled behind his eyelids, and he forced himself to focus on the two faces hovering over him.

“Huh..?” He mumbles, his movements coming slowly to a stop and he blinks a few times to try and clear his vision. The room lurched again, and he froze up, trying to ride out the wall of nausea that hit him.

“ _Ah,_ _shit-_  is he still breathing?”

The blur on his right stoops down to try and listen for the now familiar wheeze of his breath, and the wild, dark curls tumbling around his shoulders tickle Roger’s face, causing him to sputter dramatically, trying not to get a mouth full of hair product and _Brian_. He shoved the May-shaped smudge away from him, flinging his tongue out of his mouth with a hiss of disgust.

“Fuck, Brian, get your pube-y mop out of my face!”

“Oh my God - I’m gonna knock him out again.”

“Give it a rest, will you, Rog?”

The less flamboyant half of Queen step back from the bed and Roger can finally see them properly, chest heaving from his wild efforts of fighting them off. Rather animalistic, really - _what was he thinking?_ John and Brian blink at him, and he blinks back before they shrug unceremoniously. Just John and Brian. He doesn’t even know why he’s here, let alone why the room had decided to do an impression of a washing machine.

“How’re you feeling?” John speaks up after a while, flopping back into his seat and folding his legs over each other nervously, fidgeting in the spot until he settled on his right ankle over his left knee. Brian was the opposite, all sharp angles and pointy bits sewn together to create a scarecrow of a man, sat still in the hospital chair with his hands folded in his lap, expression stern. God, it was like he was getting scolded by his old headteacher after he launched his copy of _The Magic Faraway Tree_ at some girl’s head in Year Five. _Again._

He flopped back onto the bed, tangled hair splayed out on the pillow in a ring around his head. His mouth dried up, and his throat crackled with pain, resulting in an almost-whisper. “Dizzy. Don’t feel well.”

John and Brian winced at that, at how small and defenceless his voice sounded, coupled with the image of him shrinking into the starch-white hospital sheets. It wasn’t like they actually believed Roger’s constant attempts to seem invincible, but seeing him finally break the facade felt so very _wrong_.

“Oh.”

The drummer took a deep, shuddering breath, wincing as pressure knocked at his forehead and pain rattled through his ears. He swallowed thickly, his tongue heavy and rough in his sandpapered mouth.

“Where the fuck are we..?” He grunted, slinging his forearm over his eyes to block out the painfully bright lights currently drilling their way through his brain via his retinas. He screwed up his face again and attempted to blink the light imprint from his eyelids to no avail. Something in his arm tugged, and he realised he was hooked up to an IV, surrounded by softly beeping monitors.

“Hospital, innit.” John shrugged, still a little tipsy from the drinks he’d been nursing all night, thrown together mid-show by that bloody roadie with the flicky hair. Roger could barely remember their name when the Earth _wasn’t_ spinning like a catherine wheel. “That one on Linker Street from when you got food poisoning.”

“ _Oh_ , fantastic.” Roger deadpanned, rolling his eyes reflexively and then immediately regretting it after being hit by another wave of nausea. Damn his love of sushi. He moaned pitifully, shrinking down in the bed and tugging the rumpled covers up around his chin. “The room’s moving.”

What was meant to be a strong, manly statement emerged as a childish sob, his voice hitting that whining tone that he knew drove Brian round the bend.

“Rog, you’ll be fine.”

"But what- _What's going on_ , I-"

The door swung open at that point, and in swept Freddie, holding a half-empty cocktail and swathed in a fur coat that Roger could have _sworn_ was his. How on Earth he found time to change was beyond the other three, as they were currently still in their sweaty stage gear, reeking of booze and faux fog from the haze machine. Freddie removed the jacket, draping it over a chair.

“He’ll be better than fine if I have any say in the matter.” He announced, wriggling himself between Brian and John on the couch, folding his legs over one another in a very unceremonious fashion. “I’m not having our drummer at any less than perfect condition, _full-bloody-stop_!”

Maybe it was the head trauma, but Roger felt his heart swell in his chest at Freddie’s affection and concern, hiding his painkiller-fuelled smile under the covers.

“Thank you, Fred, I-“

“Besides, it’s not like he plays any better when he’s in good health.” He murmured, smirking from behind the rim of his glass, which bloomed into a grin when Roger huffed out his trademark growl.

“Oh, sod off, you flouncy bastard-“ Roger retaliated, before Brian interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

“ _Oi,_ pack it in for a minute, you two.” He groaned, rubbing at the spot between his eyebrows, just above his nose. Roger seemed to remember something about it being headache relief from his biology classes, but couldn’t be bothered forcing his brain to retrieve the knowledge on it. “Still, _come what May_ -“

“Stop making that fucking joke, Brian.”

“-You’ll probably be fine. You always manage to make a miraculous recovery after you pull a stunt like this.”

“I don’t even know what happened, in case any of you _knobs_ wanted to let me know!” Roger huffed again, trying to scowl as fiercely as possible without causing himself a migraine.

“Uh. Well-“ Brian began, before Freddie jumped in, gesturing nonchalantly with his glass.

“You went flying off the stage during ’ _‘39_ ’, dear.”

“Arse over tit.” John helpfully added.

“Yeah, you decked it, mate.” Brian sighed, seemingly settling for the simplicity of the previous statements. _It was just a bump, wasn’t it?_ Roger wouldn’t mind banter.

“ _What?_ ” Roger hissed and furrowed his brow, squinting his eyes as if to intimidate them into telling the truth.

“ _Oh_ , don’t give us that look, you did!” Freddie cried, throwing up his hands and sitting up in his seat. He flung his legs around, switching the one on top in a fit of restlessness. “It was that bloody tambourine - I kept telling you not to go too mental with it and now see what’s happened!”

Roger seems to remember particularly hamming it up on the tambourine that night, though the memory is foggy, and shoots a needle in his head. _Why did he do that?_

“I tambourined so hard I fell off of the stage?” He asked, grimacing, and John chimed in, having had first row seats to the entire incident.

“Well, you were giving it all that-” John bounced in his chair, stomping his foot down and clapping his hands in an attempt to copy Roger’s enthusiastic percussion. Freddie crowed with laughter, pointing excitedly, as Brian dodged John’s incredibly pointy-looking elbows.

“Yes! Yes, _that was it_ , Deaky!”

“-and basically,” the bassist continued, “you got a bit too into it and got your foot all tangled in the wires. Next thing you know - your arse is in the air and you’re conked out on the arena floor.”

“ _And you’re all making jokes about it?!_ ” Roger protested, flapping his arms around incredulously, and nearly throwing himself off of the bed in the process.

“ _You’re_ _fine!_ ”

“Are you joki- I’m _concussed_ , Brian!”

“To be fair, it was mostly your fault.” Freddie murmured, and Roger kicked up the whining again before John spoke over them all.

“Bit stupid, really.” John hums, tapping his foot lightly. “You looked like a right git, too. Why’d you do that, you plum?”

“I dunno, it makes Y/N laugh-“

He trailed off, and suddenly he remembered you, bursting into his head like a supernova of light and warmth, all bright eyes and wide grins. _But where were you?_

_He hissed with pain as another shot of pain ripped through his skull, and he opened his eyes to see a kaleidoscope of bright lights, colours swirling in his vision. He was back at the concert, judging by the cold concrete on his back, and the booming voice of Freddie ordering people around on his microphone._

_“For fuck’s sake- Can we get some help, please? Come on, quick sticks!”_

_Roger was sprawled out on the arena floor, staring up at the roof with his whole body throbbing with pain, the rafters swirling in his vision. He blinked hard, trying to clear the blur away, but to no avail._

_The crowd were murmuring worriedly now, pushed further and further back by the stage crew - and Roger could have sworn he saw his bandmates crouched by the edge of the apron, looking down at him with wide eyes. Freddie said something that seemed to echo, although whether that was Roger’s head or the tech was up for debate._

_“Where’s the bloody- Hello? Did you not just see our drummer take a nose dive off of the stage? Where’s first aid?”_

_“ROGER!” There was that scream again. Your voice, loud and panicked and there as he’d tipped over the edge of the stage, the smile fading from his face. He’d landed with a thump and a crack as his head smacked against the floor, knocking the air out of him and sending his world off kilter._

_“Wait-“ Someone’s voice rattled over the speakers - John, perhaps - and Roger heard his voice fade as he left the range of the mic. What he could see of the top of John’s curls stumbled a little, like he’d been bumped into._

_And then you were there._

_You flung yourself over the stage in the blink of an eye, dropping past the wires and lights to the arena floor below with a thump. You stumbled, stifling a cry of pain as you landed awkwardly and rolled your ankle, pushing forward to drop to your knees at Roger’s side. The concrete grazed the skin there, and suddenly they felt like they were on fire, but you didn’t care._

_His whole mouth was flooded with something metallic tasting and he rolled to the side, vision swimming, to cough it up onto the concrete, his tongue burning with something acrid and awful. A blurry, shaking hand came up to paw at his mouth and came away red, and he flopped back onto the floor, chest heaving. You were leaning over him and talking - your hair haloed in beautiful, blue light - but your voice sounded muffled and tinny. A hand smoothed over his forehead and back over his hair, pushing his chin up - starting to put him into the recovery position, he now realises - and Roger can feel himself frowning in confusion before the pain behind his eyes wipes him out._

And then his eyes open again.

“Roger?” His bandmates had been staring at him as he wilted at the mention of your name, crumpling like paper. “Rog, are you going to be sick again? Brian - get the little, cardboard bowl-thing!”

The drummer suddenly shot up, a flurry of limbs and blond hair as he surged to stand up - only for the room to collapse beneath him and send him reeling. He slumped against someone now stood in front of him. Brian, judging by the height.

"Y/N, whe- where's Y/N, _I need-_ "

There were hands on his shoulders, pulling gently on his biceps to press his back to the bed. Roger fought them off, reaching for the railings in order to pull himself to his feet.

“Rog, you need to lie down-“

“But I need to see Y/N- please, is she okay?”

The band shared a look, John nibbling on the inside of his lip, and then turned back to Roger - pale, sweaty, and practically lost in the cot he’d been thrown into.

“Jesus, she’s _alive_ , Roger-“

“ _Is she okay?_ ” He insisted, his gaze so intense that his friends practically wilted under it. Brian shuffled uncomfortably, his mouth going dry. No one wanted to say anything, because of the reaction they knew they were going to get. Unfortunately for him, Brian knew that keeping anything from Roger would just result in a fouler outcome. He took a breath, and his bandmates followed, bracing themselves for an explosion.

“She hurt herself jumping off of the stage, but-“

The drummer shuddered with effort, deciding he didn’t need to hear the rest of the sentence and tipping forwards in another attempt to rise from the bed. John and Freddie pressed him down again, into the hard coldness of the mattress, and Brian’s heart wrenched. Roger let out a strangled shout - something akin to your name - and pushed at them as hard as he could, which wasn’t very much in his current state.

“What the fuck? _Let me go-!_ ” He snapped, ripping his arms out of the hands of his friends and desperately pushing down the severe nausea that was building within him. “Please, Brian, you have to-!”

Angry Roger? That was expected. Anyone could have seen the hissing and spitting rage coming from miles away, and it wasn’t as if Roger wasn’t known for it - but seeing him like this, desperately pleading to see you, all shaky and cold to the touch, shocked him. The guitarist crouched down a little, bringing himself to Roger’s eye-level and taking him by the shoulders.

“Brian! _Please!_ ”

“Rog, look at me- hey, _look at me_.” Brian tapped his fingers lightly on Roger’s cheek, bringing the blond’s focus back into the room. John and Freddie slowly loosened their grip, feeling the tension ease out of Roger’s shoulders. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and it rattled through his body under their fingertips. “She’s okay, but she needs to rest.”

“But-“

“And so do you, mate, you’re knackered.”

“ _No, I don’t-!_ ”

“For God’s sake, Roger - _yes, you do!_ ” Brian tried to ignore how childish and scared Roger sounded, and instead focussed on tracking his eye movements, which were worryingly jerky and slow, his pupils like little pinpricks amongst the bright blue of his iris. “You know, this is the first time you’ve woken up tonight and been able to hold a conversation? You’ve woken up twice already, Rog, and you could barely see straight. You have to rest.”

_Twice? And he couldn’t even remember it? Maybe this was worse than he thought._

The drummer’s eyes softened, becoming half-lidded and sleepy and ringed with dark circles, highlighting the hollows of his already sickly-looking face. The colour seemed to drain from his cheeks, and he barely muttered an ‘ _oh, fuck_ ’ before he doubled over, and violently threw up into the bin that had been thrust in front of him by John.

“Case in point.” John murmured, wrinkling his nose in disgust and making a very strong effort as to not look at what had what had just been ejected into the bucket. “Fred? A word, please.”

Freddie looked up at John from where he’d been fussing over Roger, tucking the scratchy sheets under his chin and smoothing them down, swiping at his mouth with a balled-up tissue and forcing a cup of water to his lips. He ran a hand over the top of Roger’s sticky hair, set the cup down and swept out, followed closely by John, who was holding the bucket at arm’s length. Roger swallowed thickly, furrowing his eyebrows and letting out a trembling breath.

“Bri?”

“What is it?” The guitarist was examining the various machines surrounding the bed, reading the labels and fiddling with the little wires out of curiosity.

“Thanks, by the way.”

“No problem, Rog.”

“ _I mean it._ ”

Brian looks up from his anxious tinkering to look at Roger, who is swathed in blankets and looking at him in that awful way - his eyes full of regret and pain as they usually were when he was hungover. But, this time, it was more than a clingy one-night-stand that they had to deal with, it was bigger than that. Brian opened his mouth to say something, to make a promise that he probably wouldn’t be able to keep, before Freddie poked his head into the room, nodding to him.

“Come on, let’s leave the silly bugger to have a kip.” He said, and Brian stood up, looking at Roger one last time before leaving him alone in the hospital room, turning out the lights as he left.

An echo of Freddie’s voice leaked through the cracks in the door like treacle, filling the room with its bright vibrancy and passion. As his words faded from earshot, Roger decided that passion was just what he needed right now.

Which was why he was going to get out of bed and find you.


	2. Act Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an accident during a show, Roger is left to hunt you down in a hospital with nothing but a concussion and fuck-ton of painkillers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tried not to make this too mushy,, but I love soft roger.... pls req on my tumblr @rhapso-kei !! <3

Of course, Roger didn’t exactly know if this was the best idea or not, seeing as he was currently sprawled in a heap on the floor - _with no actual memory of getting there_. He sat there for a second, slumped over and grasping around blindly for something to haul him to his feet. He squinted, before cringing at how smudgy his vision was and wondering why he didn’t just wear his glasses without kicking up such a huge fuss about them. Although, he supposed that was always what he’d been best at - making a scene. Perhaps he could put it on his CV, just in case the band flopped.

Narrowing his eyes and managing to make his vision stop swimming long enough to carefully remove the IV in his arm ( _thank you, dental degree!_ ), Roger gripped onto the railings of his bed, and groaned as he pulled himself upright, his entire body trembling with the effort of not falling over, vomiting, or passing out all at the same time. The steady _thump_ of footsteps on squeaky linoleum outside provided a bass line to the thrumming, thrashing percussion of his racing heartbeat, and he choked out a chuckle at how, even now, he was still managing to find music around him. He studied the noises, the low voices of nurses, the rattling of instrument carts, the harsh alarms on doctors’ pagers, and still couldn’t hear the bickering of his bandmates. So the coast was probably clear.

In a moment of - _frankly uncharacteristic_ \- clear-headed rationality, Roger checked himself over for any stains that could give him away, which only proved fruitless as he could currently see two of everything, and both versions were equally blurry. He could barely make out the ratty, old t-shirt that the band had stuffed him in on the way to the hospital, seeing as the outfit he had on stage that night had been repeatedly described by Freddie as ‘ _wondrously slutty_ ’ and by Brian as ‘ _not at all appropriate for a hospital_.’

He shivered, reaching out for the fur coat Freddie had left over a chair, and slid it on, wrapping himself in the warm fabric.

Roger’s joints seared with pain as he forced himself to shuffle towards the door, and open it. Halfway through turning the handle, he realised he might need a cover story, but he’d thrust himself into the brightly lit corridor before his brain had caught up with him and decided on one, and- _oh balls_ , there was a doctor walking up to him.

“Excuse me, Sir, do you-?”

“Hangover.” Roger immediately interrupted - _it was the first thing that came to mind!_ \- and shuffled past them, gripping onto the handrail that ran along the corridor wall for support. _Christ_ , these lights were bright, and they didn’t half help his headache either. He pawed at his pockets, and nearly burst into tears of relief upon finding a pair of forgotten prescription sunglasses buried in the bottom of one - _so it was his jacket!_ Thank God Freddie had scarpered before he found that out, or the hospital probably would’ve had another concussion on their hands.

He slid them on, the world around him becoming slightly less disjointed, before staring at his reflection in a window, picking at his blood-matted hair ( _probably not a good sign_ - _he really should **not** be out of bed_) and smacking himself on the cheeks a few times in an attempt to pull himself together. _Find you_. That’s all he needed to do.

Obviously, it took a bit of asking around, funny looks and elbow grease - the latter meaning that he had begun to physically hold himself upright on the handrails - before he finally got a useful answer out of someone, a fresh-faced intern that he managed to scare into telling him your room number.

“Sir, I’m not allowed to tell you that-“

“ _Listen-_ please, make an exception, just for me.” Yeah, before he spews all over their ugly, baggy scrubs. _Jesus_ , the painkillers they gave him were not strong enough in the slightest. The intern stammers, fiddling with their stethoscope.

“I can’t tell you a patient’s room number unless you’re family.” They repeated, and Roger sputtered incredulously, desperately attempting to seem like someone who wasn’t currently off his tits on Co-codamol.

“But I _am_ family!”

“In what way, Sir?”

“We’re... _involved_.” He didn’t exactly feel like getting into the complexities of your relationship right now, especially with someone who’ll eventually get hounded by the press for every minuscule detail of his stay. The intern frowned, cocking their head innocently.

“Involved..?”

“We shag.” He heard himself say and instantly made a mental note to smack himself across the face later, when the painkillers had worn off and he’d actually be able to feel it. ‘ _We shag_ ’? What sort of weirdo said that about the person they were in love with? You had just hurt yourself trying to see if he was okay, _to comfort him_ , and the best that he could describe your relationship was that the two of you occasionally engaged in fornication. _He was a songwriter, for fuck’s sake! A wordsmith!_ It seemed to work though, as the intern turned a bright red, and squeaked out a room number before scurrying away with their clipboard clutched tightly to their chest.

Roger tried to hide the shiver that raced across his burning, clammy skin, and squinted up at the room number, barely making out a one and a three - _though, that **could** be a two and an eight.._. He swallowed thickly, glancing down at his shoes to find them half-bathed in the soft light peaking out the bottom of the door, before attempting to read the sign next to the room number.

Yes. You were definitely behind this door, according to the sign, which had your surname scrawled on it in messy, looping letters - although that might have just been him. He blinked, wondering what it would be like if ‘ _Taylor_ ’ was written there instead, before shaking his head slightly, reminding himself to focus. A shaking hand placed itself on the doorknob, and Roger felt like he was watching himself push the door open from a million miles away.

_Then he saw you and nearly passed out._

You were pale and sweaty, strands of hair plastered to your forehead as the rest of it splayed out on the pillow, ruffled from the earlier events of the night. You were sleeping, your chest rising and falling softly in the dim light, lips parted for each slow breath. Purple rimmed your eyes, puffy and wet from crying, and blossomed along your ankle like a wine stain left on a bedsheet - stippled with black and the edges tinged green. His knees felt like they were full of air, and they buckled a little, Roger leaning on the door to keep upright. Something cold and heavy settled on his chest. _Pressing._

He could barely breathe.

Roger took a single step forward, body curled around the spot in his chest that currently felt like it was being stabbed with sheer guilt, and the door closed with a click, followed by a hum from you, lifting your head from the pillow and looking up at him with such a gentle glint in your eye.

Roger whispered your name, a soft puff of breath from where he was standing, rooted to the spot. “I’m sorry, love, did I wake you up-?”

“No, no.” You blink, mustering the energy for a weak smile, and Roger feels his heart pang in his chest. You extend a hand over the edge of the bed, curling your fingers to prompt him closer. “C’mere, _Twinkletoes_.”

“Oh, cheers.” He huffed, frowning half-heartedly as he shuffled to your bedside. “I guess I’m not getting rid of this incident for a while, am I?”

“No.” You smiled again, sleepy and dazed, and you lifted your hand to cup his cheek, smoothing your thumb over the delicate, dark skin under his eyes. He furrowed his eyebrows, static building up inside his head and roaring in his ears.

“I’m sorry.”

“...About what?”

“The whole falling thing, I didn’t-“

“Roger.” You sit up as best you can, and pull at the hem of Roger’s jacket to sit him down at the end of the bed. He fights it, attempting to softly pull your hands away before giving in and taking a seat, tracing his rough fingertips over the shin of your non-broken leg in swirling patterns. “That is _not_ your fault.”

“ _But it is!_ You got hurt because of _me_ acting like a numpty, and-!”

“I got hurt because _I_ decided to fling myself off of the stage after you, instead of taking the stairs like a normal person, Rog.” You insist, inching forward on the bed to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, and he leans into your touch, starved for human contact and comfort. “Nearly bulldozed poor Deaky in the process, too.”

“I only fell because I was trying to make you laugh with the tambourine.” He practically whined, and you laughed, filling the whole room and making his nerve endings sing with a rush of happiness.

That was always you - the tingly feeling that filled his whole body when you smiled, or winked at him, or did that thing with your hair. _And Roger loved it._

He lets you gently take off his sunglasses, and he sees you in full definition, without the blurriness that seemed to haunt him for the past few hours. You look into his eyes, studying him closely before sitting back, apparently pleased with yourself.

“If it makes you feel any better, it did make me laugh, _you absolute lunatic_.” You chuckle, turning your torso to wipe the lenses on the covers and Roger feels tears pricking at his eyes for absolutely no reason. “Besides, is that my t-shirt?”

“Y/N- love, _honestly_ , I didn’t mean to hurt you-“ Queen’s drummer draws in a shaky, shallow breath, and you turn, knitting your brow in concern.

“ _Shush_ , Rog, I haven’t died. _Yet._ ” You hush him, smoothing your hands over his slumped shoulders, the ends of his hair tickling at your fingers. Your heart aches to draw him into a hug, but he remains stiff and detached, ashamed of his own emotional reaction - so you settle on folding up his sunglasses and slotting them into his jacket pocket. “You should go back to your room and rest-“

“No. That’s what those other knobs said - I’m staying with you.” He shook his head, swiping at his eyes with his hands and sniffing. “Whether you want me to or not, I’m not going.”

“Rog, those ‘ _other knobs_ ’ are your friends and they care about you. _Please_ go back, you don’t have to worry about me-“ You wrap a lock around your finger, stiff with hairspray, and tug lightly, like you did when you were teasing him, before he leant closer, brushing your own hair away from your eyes.

“I’m not worried. Wouldn’t be much use if I was worried.” He lies, and you can tell - _not even attempting false bravado_ \- smoothing his fingers over the skin of your cheekbone and memorising every curve and edge to your face for the millionth time since he met you. _He was completely and utterly yours._ “I care about you more.”

“You’re a stubborn bastard, Roger Taylor.”

“Love you _._ ”

“Love you too.” You replied, almost as a reflex. “Just _keep yourself alive_ , okay?”

“Oi.” Roger found himself chuckling softly, kicking off his shoes and lifting his shaking legs up onto the bed, curled underneath him, before they dropped off from the pure amount of fear-induced adrenaline pumping through him.

“I’m serious! When you fell, I had a _sheer heart attack_.”

“ _Y/N._ ” He warned, eyeing the smug look on your face, unable to suppress a smile. “You’re in a good mood, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m high on morphine, Rog.”

“Me too.” He grinned, sniffling and attempting to scrub the splotchy redness away from his cheeks. “Though I reckon it just makes me a soppy tosser.”

“You’re already a soppy tosser.” You laugh, leaning back on the bed and sinking into the pillow, looking up at him through glossy, half-closed eyelashes. “Just go back to your room, and pretend I’m there.”

“That’s how most of my nights on tour start, love-“

“I’m serious!” You snort, letting your face light up with a smile. “Okay, imagine me in the chair opposite your bed, _fully clothed_.”

“Not interested.” He interrupts, dismissing the suggestion with a wave of his hand, and drawing a light giggle from you.

“I’m sat in the chair and reading you a book - _what’s that one you like called?_ ” You pause, waiting for an answer that never came. “Roger, are you listening?”

“What? Oh, yeah, uh- sex.”

“ _Roger._ ”

“Okay, not funny.” He chuckles, scratching at his jaw with a callused hand. You see his fingers tapping on his thigh, his foot swinging over the edge of the bed and realise he’s drumming without being behind his kit, living his life as a series of complicated solos that he just had to break down into rhythms and beats and tempos. He was just like his percussion, all complicated frills and rolls.

“Shut up and go to sleep, you daft pillock.” You nod, nudging at him with your good foot to bring him out of his nervous tapping trance. You caught your tongue between your teeth, smiling as you fought to stifle your laughter, snickering lightly.

“ _You_ go to sleep!” He retaliated, eyes wrinkling with a grin. He watched you for a moment, taking in all of the hospital tech and tubes surrounding you, and his face softened again, guilt clawing it’s way up his throat. “ _It’s just_... I feel like I’ve hurt you, yeah? But we can just pretend not to be _shitting-our-pants-scared_ , and that everything hasn’t gone tits up if you want-“

“I’m not scared, Roger. There’s nothing to be scared of.” You soothe, reaching out to stop the frantic thrumming of his index finger on his thigh and intertwine your fingers. Roger frowned, squeezing tightly as you began to trace circles onto the back of his hand with your thumb.

“Of me. Of my stupid mistakes, and my temper, and my-“

“Roger. I’m not scared of you, and I never will be. You’re like a harmless, little chihuahua.” Your voice is soft, like honey and hot, sugary tea, and you winced as you shifted over in the bed, making room for him. He shook his head frantically, eyes burning again. “Lie with me.”

“No, you don’t have to-“

“Come on, _I’m fine_! Besides, this will all be a fun story we tell people in the future.” You pat at the empty space next to you - warm, despite the starchy covers. “Like our kids, and shit.”

“You want _kids?_ ” He blinks, falling still for a moment, before raising a single finger and pointing at himself, dumbfounded. “With _me_ of all people?”

“I mean, well- _I don’t know_ , this isn’t the right place to have this chat, is it?” You sputter, suddenly embarrassed from your own spur-of-the-moment comments.

“Well, it’s a hospital, innit? It’s probably the best place _._ ”

“Roger, we’re not even _married_ , or anything!”

“Do you _want_ to get married?” He probes, and you turn red, burying your face in the scratchy pillows, hair falling over your face.

“We have to talk about this when we’re both _not_ high.” You groan, and Roger taps at your thigh, prompting you to open your eyes again and lift your head.

“You won’t be able to walk down the aisle with _that_.” He points to your ankle, swollen and bruised, with a grimace. “You look like you’re turning into the bloody _Cheshire Cat_.”

“Oh, like you’re any better! Fred told me your head had to be sewn up! You’re lucky your brain didn’t fall out.” You retort, your heart squeezing with worry as you watch his face drop, and his hand fly up to the back of his neck, feeling around for the wound. “Hey, _careful_ -!”

“I got stitches?” He murmurs before his fingers brush the neat little seam and his blood runs cold, eyes widening. Your heart aches as you see his eyes gloss over again, and you sit up, pulling his hand away and planting your hands either side of his face, on his jaw. “I, I’m-”

“ _Roger_ -“

“I’m _scared_ , (Y/N).”

His voice is barely a whisper, rough and scratchy from singing and shouting all night - maybe he was losing it, which was another nightmare in and of itself.

“Come here, Rog.” You lay down, guiding him with you by the shoulders, and Roger allowed himself the comfort of your warmth, the feeling of your chest against his back like a tether to the present, stopping him from spiralling into a wild panic. _He could have this. He was allowed this._ He bit down his objections and anxieties, pushing the rising tide within him down and down again, shuffling around the bed to reach the empty space you had made for him before folding his legs up and lying next to you.

You hummed, a few dissident notes of a song from their concert set that he could probably recognise if he put his mind to it, and you shifted closer to him, throwing an arm over him and burying your face in his blond thatch of hair.

You brought the knee of your good leg up to fit behind his, like jigsaw pieces fitting together, and curl your hand around his torso, pulling yourself closer to him and squeezing gently. He could feel your breath on his cheek, a soft reminder you were there, as you snuggled into him. Roger felt like jelly, his heart blooming as that gentle bullet of love ripped through him once more.

You fell quiet, and Roger crumpled beneath you.

He brought a hand up to his face, hiding behind his clasped fingers as he finally broke, dissolving into noiseless, jerky sobs. He felt the tears leave his eyes, burning hot, and run over his cheeks to sink into the pillow beneath him, leaving trails of cold in their wake.

“I’m here, love.” You hush him, cooing softly into his ear and rubbing your palm over his shoulder, and pressing a soft kiss, and then your forehead to the small patch of skin that was exposed from the way his collar rumpled beneath him. His skin was warm, flushed red, and he shattered more under your embrace, a strangled breath escaping his throat as you ran your fingertip over the soft whorl of his ear.

You tugged at his shoulder, lightly enough to coax him into turning over and facing you, blue eyes rimmed with an angry red, and you could have sworn that you heard your heart shatter in your chest, exploding against your ribcage.

“I’m sorry, _honestly_ , it’s the- it’s the meds, I don’t know what they’ve put me on-“

“It’s okay to cry, Rog.” You murmur, sliding your curled finger under his chin to direct his gaze towards yours, looking up at him. You held your extended finger between the two of you, tapping on his nose softly and he presses a kiss to the fingerprint, eyelashes dark and wet with tears like morning dew on the grass. “I won’t tell.”

“ _I’m sorry_.”

“It’s okay.”

You press your nose into the gentle curve of his neck, just under his jaw, and breathe slowly, letting your body rise and fall beneath the single, warm hand that had found itself resting on the side of your ribcage. His overwhelmingly familiar scent flooded you; the unique, musty smell that seemed to flood every wing and backstage crevice of every theatre; his own sweat, and the beer he insisted on drenching his drum set with each night; the apple-y echo of the shampoo he used that morning; cigarette smoke. Your hand curled up instinctively from where it was sandwiched between your two bodies and ran through his hair, smoothing out the snags and tangles. He sighed under your touch, and his eyes fall shut.

“It’s all going to be okay.” You whisper, and - just like that - _Roger knows it will._


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forty years after your boyfriend falls off a stage in front of thousands of people, you find yourself on a film set…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its the end of an era!! thank you all who sent me such kind messages and expressed your enjoyment of the fic,, this was actually my first ever multi chapter fic so !! usually I get distracted but I guess I’m making progress huh?? pls request anything on my Tumblr @rhapso-kei, where I have other fics, and content!! <3

“And then what happened? You were okay, right?”

Roger looked up from the small, worn photo he held in his hand, surrounded by various newspaper clippings detailing the incident and sporting huge, blurry photos of him mid-fall, still clutching his tambourine. ‘ _Taylor’s Tragic Tumble!_ ’ one read, and he remembered sitting in your flat and watching you circle it in red pen with a snort, stamping an ‘A’ grade at the top of the page, for ‘excellent use of alliteration!’. The ink was still there, if he squinted, your handwriting familiar to him after decades of post-it notes left on the fridge and hastily scribbled reminders about parents’ evenings.

“We were all back on our feet in no time, too much to get done. Well - apart from Y/N, of course.” He chuckled to himself, setting the picture down and scratching at his beard. It was a cute snapshot of the two of you in the morning, all curled up together on one bed and buried in the sheets, Roger’s legs carefully avoiding your injured foot - which they later found out was a broken ankle. You were _not_ pleased. “Besides, it basically jump-started me getting my shit together.”

Roger Taylor looks up from the table to stare into four pairs of young, shining eyes, the actors portraying their younger selves all curled up on the couch together and listening to the story with attentive ears. There’s another photo in the box, of the two of you asleep on your couch, you curled up under a blanket with your head in his lap and your foot in a cast, him with his head tipped back and his mouth open. John had taken it after he and the rest of the boys had waited an hour for him to turn up to rehearsal, only for them to turn up at your flat unannounced and find the two of you out cold. There was a lot of sleeping done back then.

“Brian found us the next morning after the hospital kicked off about me being missing from my bed.” He laughed to himself, remembering the look on the guitarist’s face in the morning. “I’ve never seen him so angry - he looked like he was about to explode!”

“ _I can’t believe you did that._ ” Gwilym groaned, throwing his head back and rubbing at his nose. “It’s so dangerous - something could have happened.”

“See, that’s what _Brian_ said!” Roger leant forward in his seat, handing the photo over to Rami, who studied it with intensity before passing it to Joe, who smiled softly. “Freddie was parading around all morning gloating like a knob because he apparently knew it was going to happen.”

“I can’t believe they cut this from the script!”

“The film can only be so long, Joe.”

“Well, yeah, but- you know!”

Roger watched Ben take the photograph and stare at it, eyes wide. His younger self pointed at the two figures in the hospital bed, grainy from the camera quality.

“And that’s when you knew?” He almost whispers, like he’d wake the photograph of the two of you from your forty-year long slumber. “ _In this moment?_ ”

Ah, _back to their question_ \- which sparked this whole anecdote in the first place. They’d called it character research, but Roger guessed that they were probably just curious anyway.

“Yeah, Deaky took that one, too - on the morning after, and when I saw it, it all just _clicked_ , you know?” Roger smiles at his younger self, still filled with all that energy and unknowing at what lies ahead. He remembers being young again, the soft brush of your hands on his forehead, filling his heart with the warmest feeling - so much he thought he was going to burst. “I knew that that was the woman I wanted to marry.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And I figured it would be better to call her my wife than telling strangers that we shag.” Joe snorts at that. He roots around in the box to find another photo - one of you holding yourself upright with a pair of crutches, scowling and holding your middle finger up to the camera, and Roger still grins like a giddy schoolboy at the sight of the glittering band around your ring finger.

“Wow.”

“Fuck yes, ‘ _wow_.’ I bought a ring as soon as I could walk without being sick everywhere and found time to propose between sleeping and sitting around completely mashed on painkillers.” Roger shrugs, lifting the cup they’d given him to take a sip of his tea. “Missed out on so much telly too - _I barely remember any of it!_ ”

“Yeah, _and_ he whined like a baby the whole time he had to get his stitches out.” You spoke, and the boys all looked up to see you leaning on the door jamb, a faint smile playing on your cheeks. “You can actually see the scar on the back of his head now that he’s gone all baldy.”

“Hello, Mrs Taylor!” One of the boys - John’s double, you think - chimes with a wave, and you return the gesture, smiling brightly and insisting that the young men call you by your first name.

“ _I’m not baldy!_ ” He sputters indignantly, shifting over on the ottoman to make room for you, and you sit, taking the photo from Ben and laughing fondly at the memory. He turns to the boys, waving your comments off and adopting a serious tone. “And I didn’t whine.”

“ _You did!_ I had to come and hold your hand, and you wouldn’t stop fidgeting!” You nudge at him, snickering delightfully. “I believe you were ‘ _shitting-your-pants-scared_ ’, as you so eloquently put it.” You poke at his arm, grinning wickedly. “The nurse nearly knocked you out.”

“ _Lies._ ” He insists to the young actors currently trying not to laugh, barely fighting away smiles. “ _And!_ And, because the scar was right here-“ he gestures with his fingers, a short, horizontal line at the back of his head, “-She kept calling me the human piggy bank and poking pennies at my head!”

“I broke my ankle for you and you called me ‘ _Hop-Along_ ’ for months!”

“Oi - _watch it, Limpy_.” He warns, and you laugh, in that same joyous, room-filling way you had been for the past forty years, leaning against him and smoothing your hand over the back his short, white hair. It used to be longer, and blond, so you could tangle your fingers up in it and _tug_. You hummed at the memory, and Roger chuckled, seeming to share the same thought.

The actors laugh too, and though you’ve known them for such a short while - they were supposed to be filming the Live Aid set after this lunch break was over - you’ve come to care for them all, reminding you of the boys you’d loved so deeply for so long. _You still love them_.

The boys are called to the set, and you wish each of them luck, clasping their hands and hugging them tightly like a doting mother. A tight squeeze for Rami, Gwilym bending down so you could kiss his cheek in a way that reminded you so much of Brian back in his heyday, and a brush of your hands over John-  _Joe’s_ shoulders. It was like you'd gone back forty years, wishing each of them good luck before they went out on stage. _Your boys_. 

You turn to Ben, fiddling with the blond wig for a second before looking into his eyes, and telling him firmly what you’d told Roger all those years ago, and so often since.

“Everything will be okay.”

Ben smiles.

The boys leave, and you sit back down next to Roger, looking at the small, yellowed photo in his hand, where the two of you are completely tangled up in each other.

“Would you go back if you could?” He murmurs, turning to press the words into your temple, and you lean against him, letting out a sigh. “Back to that night, to stop yourself from jumping off the stage?”

“No.” You answer, shaking your head and patting a warm hand over his knee with a smile. “Never. Not for anything.”

Roger smiles back at you, the blue eyes you knew so well sparkling, framed by crinkles worn into his skin from years of laughing.

“Love you.”

“Soppy bastard.” You chuckle, nudging him with your elbow and squeezing his hand. “Love you too.”

_And everything was okay, like he always knew it would be._


End file.
